


slowly slowly you unfold me

by crownedcarl



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Rick,” Daryl says; his voice is rough from the cigarette that he puts out beneath his boot, “What are you trying to tell me?”</p><p>He shouldn’t have asked that. Rick has a dozen answers for him, all of them true and shameful and freeing.</p><p>“Ain’t it obvious?” Rick asks, “Hasn’t it been obvious the whole time?”</p><p>(atlanta is behind him and the road ahead is far from clear; daryl dixon was never part of the plan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	slowly slowly you unfold me

**Author's Note:**

> tbqh i ran out of steam towards the end of this fic. i meant to write at least twice as much as what i'm posting now, but i might turn it into a series one day, so there's that. for anyone wondering, this is primarily a rick/daryl fic and somewhat of a rick-fest. enjoy ??
> 
> (special shout-out to [scarlett](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hellornothing/pseuds/hellornothing) for kicking my ass about giving this fic more substance & motivating me !)

“You think I want to hurt you?” Shane asks, voice raspy with fury and the better half of a bottle of whisky, bruised knuckles held inches away from Rick’s cheek. This is a familiar pattern, one that Rick has come to expect and he draws a deep, shuddering breath when the answer to that question is no. Shane never wants to hurt him and then does it anyway; Rick can feel his pulse quickening, a primal response to all the screaming and the glass shattered on the floor.

They weren’t always like this. God knows they weren’t always this destructive and dysfunctional, but lately, this mess is the only thing that’s tethering them together and Rick isn’t willing – isn’t ready – to give that up.

He shakes his head, letting Shane pull him to his feet and into a tight embrace. “’course you don’t,” Rick spits at him, stiff under the hand that gentles up his spine. “Sure as hell never stops you, though.”

Those words are so stupid because they’ve had this argument – not versions of this argument, this exact argument – a hundred times before and Rick already knows where it’s heading, but he lets it happen. He provokes Shane, makes Shane angry enough to hit him until he doesn’t, anymore and Rick still tries his damnedest to get Shane’s blood boiling. Then comes the sex, then come the apologies and they’re right back to square one.

Rick hates square one. It means waiting.

“No,” Shane agrees, pushing Rick back against the wall, pure muscle and determination keeping him there. “It don’t.”

Rick doesn’t say stop, or don’t, or please. He got over those words a long time ago when he found that they didn’t fit him. He says “Put your hands on me,” and pulls hard on Shane’s hair until he does, both of them gasping for breath when their broken parts line up exquisitely – and this, this is what Rick wants in the aftermath. He wants the heat and the passion instead of the fists and the arguing. “Fuck,” Shane says, breathing the word into Rick’s mouth. “See that, sweetheart? We ain’t so bad when we ain’t fighting.”

-

A new start, Rick had said, had insisted, until Shane listened and caved and agreed. They can’t stay where everyone thinks that they know their story, where everyone acts like Shane is a pariah and Rick is a victim, but they don’t have the first clue. A new start, Rick had promised and they had packed their things and left.

They got married young, way too young, but it worked at the start and frayed in the middle and Rick is unwilling to call this the end, so he doesn’t, but he knows that they’re fractured and he’s desperate to put it back together, but they can’t do it in the town where they grew up. People there don’t get them. People there talk behind their backs and greet them with polite, fake smiles and offer sympathetic looks to Rick and sharp ones to Shane. They don’t know the first thing about them.

The new house isn’t much; it’s small and sturdy and ancient, the lawn is more of a square piece of flat, brown grass than anything else and the porch steps creak and stutter under their weight as they bring in box after box, sweating under the hot Georgia sky. It’s nothing compared to their first house, but there’s too much bad blood back there and Rick is adamant about this. A new start.

“’fore we leave,” Shane had said, looking awfully small next to Rick on their bed – soon to be abandoned – as he ran a hand through his hair, his mouth tight and pursed. “’fore we leave, I want you to promise me something. Can you do that?”

I’m sick of making promises, Rick wanted to say, because he was black and bleeding on the inside with every vow that they didn’t uphold, but he said “Yeah, ‘course,” and waited patiently for Shane to get to the point. It surprised him, what it ended up being. It surprised him how genuine Shane had been.

He gave Rick his necklace, the number 22 reflecting the moonlight, glinting sharply. “You hold on to this,” Shane said, voice firm as he put the necklace into Rick’s open palm. “I don’t want it back ‘til we’ve worked things out. You keep it. Make sure I keep my ass in line, huh?”

Rick could’ve said _that ain’t my job_ and prompted another fight, but instead, he nodded and put his mouth to Shane’s shoulder; he could bite down, make Shane curse, let them rumple their sheets one last time before leaving, but he didn’t. Shane was trying, here. That mattered. “Go to sleep,” Rick had told him and they slept with their backs to one another, that night.

-

It’s a sunny day when they arrive, and it’s sunny the day after and the entire first week that they spend getting settled. A shitty house, a shitty town, a shitty grocery store – if you asked Shane – but it was something and it was new, and nobody there knows them. It puts Rick at ease, that fact. He doesn’t owe these people anything.

“Mornin’,” someone grunts from his right. Rick is a trained deputy – he doesn’t flinch at the sudden sound of a voice, but his fingers twitch, his eyes narrowing as he looks over. On the sagging porch of their neighboring house where the mailbox is battered and reading **DIXON** in thick block letters, a man is smoking a cigarette under the shelter and shade that the house offers. He looks like trouble.

Rick is good with trouble. “Good morning,” he returns, adjusting the box of kitchenware in his arms. “Suppose you already gathered we’re the new neighbors?”

The man’s eyes flicker to the front door of his and Shane’s new house at the way that Rick says we, as if he’s looking for the second party, wondering who it might be. Rick wonders if they’ll have problems, here – they sure as hell had problems in the city, civilized and accepting as it was supposed to be. “I got eyes,” the man agrees, “I got that. Daryl.”

It takes Rick a moment to understand that the man has introduced himself, because he doesn’t offer a hand or a smile or a follow-up question, so Rick spends a moment just looking at him until he replies “Rick Grimes, and that there-“ he gestures at the front of the house where Shane has just made his way down the driveway to back the car into the garage, “Is Shane.”

Daryl doesn’t ask. He only nods, returning to his cigarette, and mutters “Nice to meet y’all.”

-

“The hell’s that all about?” Shane asks later, bewildered as they both watch Daryl take off down the road on the back of a motorcycle that looks practically ancient – vintage, Rick supposes, and shrugs before he gets back to his CD collection. “We livin’ next to a hoodlum?”

It makes Rick smile, hearing Shane talk like that – in cop mode and wary, looking out for the two of them and the rest of their new neighborhood. “I’m sure he’s just fine,” he tells Shane, kicking at his chair leg to bring his attention back to unpacking. “Not everyone that rides a motorcycle and smokes is automatically a criminal, Shane.”

“You say that,” he grouses, shaking his head, lighting up when he digs out an old jacket from a random box, running his fingers across the leather. “Mark my words, Ricky, that guy’s bad news.”

That’s what people used to say about you, Rick almost says. I think they might’ve been onto something. “Don’t call me that,” he warns Shane absently. “We ain’t kids anymore.”

-

Daryl Dixon isn’t the friendliest of neighbors, but Rick can concede that he isn’t, either and Shane’s manners are a topic they stopped discussing long ago. Rick pays no mind to the man living to their right, ‘less Daryl is tearing into his cracked driveway on his motorcycle at 3AM. Whatever he does, Rick wants no part in it and while Shane tosses theories about drugs and gangs back and forth, Rick wonders if it could be simpler than that.

He doesn’t know the man, but there’s something restless to him. He doesn’t look like he belongs in the suburbs and calling their street that is generous. It’s a bunch of houses that are marginally nicer than the shacks on the edges of town, near the local dump, but it’s nice enough – too nice for Daryl’s kind, Shane had said, scowling when Rick pointedly asked what kind that would be.

They’re still fighting, but that’s nothing new. What’s new is how they’re handling it. They haven’t broken a single dish or their own hands on one another, yet. Rick is willing to hold on to that and believe that it’ll work out with all his heart.

-

There’s never been a more humiliating moment in Rick’s life than the night where the cops – their colleagues – come knocking at their door as Rick is carefully running a damp rag across his hairline, listening to Shane pacing in the kitchen while the TV blares out a football game that neither one of them is even interested in. He waits and holds his breath while Shane’s footsteps take him to the front door, offering a cheerfully strained “Hey, Don, Marie, what can I do for you?”

Don Summers and Marie Thompson are good cops and good people that turn up at a bad moment. Rick steels himself as he cracks open the bathroom door, listening to their exchange. “Sorry to barge in on you,” Marie apologizes, voice clearly uncomfortable, “But one of your neighbors reported a domestic disturbance?”

He can imagine Shane’s face, even as he can only make out the outline of his back, broad and blocking the doorway. He doesn’t want them to come in, but he can’t defuse this by himself, so Rick walks over just as Shane is saying “Might’ve gotten loud, I’ll own up to that, but-“

“Evening,” Rick interjects, smiling easily from behind Shane, inserting himself between Don and Marie’s view of the living room and the doorway into the kitchen. “There a problem?”

“Rick,” Don says, relieved – few people like to deal with Shane or know how to on a good day and this is decidedly not a good day. “Nah, thought we’d just check in and make sure things were good. Someone called and said they heard shouting, you know how it is.”

Rick does know how it is, but he didn’t think he’d be on this end of this kind of visit. He huffs a laugh, rubbing at his temple, and says “Sorry about that,” as he gestures at the TV, shrugging apologetically. “We got a little too enthusiastic,” he emphasizes, staring vacantly as a player wearing all red throws his hands into the air. He doesn’t know who’s playing who. “You know how it is,” he parrots back at Don.

Stay out of this is what he’s really saying. “I thought so,” Marie sighs, shaking her head. “Well, we cleared that up – Don, let’s get out of here. There’s nothing to report.”

“Night,” Rick tells them, and once they’re in the cruiser and halfway down the block, he shuts the door, something acidic crawling up the back of his throat. “Christ,” Shane says eventually, sounding stunned. “People can’t mind their own business, that it? Can’t even have a _dispute_ without someone butting their nose in where it don’t belong.”

Dispute, Rick thinks. He heads straight up to bed without waiting for Shane to follow.

-

The key to a case – any case – is evidence. Rick eats his cereal at the kitchen table and lets himself look clinically at the kitchen counter, the floor. Nothing there points to violence. There’s no proof of foul play that could point anyone to the place where his head cracked against the edge of the polished wood of the counter, left side of the sink.

Evidence, Rick thinks, vaguely remembering a time when they were worse than this and not very careful, bad at explanations and worse at apologies. Shane rarely apologizes because it’s rarely Shane’s fault, but Rick doesn’t have it in him to be angry. There’s no evidence, so Rick files this into the immediate past and glances out the window, eyes darkening when he sees Daryl working on his motorcycle, a stereo set up nearby, the low, aggressive sound of Metallica breaking through the barriers of the kitchen walls.

Shane comes downstairs half an hour later. Rick’s cereal has been abandoned. His eyes are still trained on Daryl, watching the broad stretch of his back; he has to blink to clear his suddenly bleary vision, glancing at Shane as he’s illuminated in the light from the open fridge. “I think it was him,” Rick says out loud, regretting it almost instantly, but he has to own the words, now. There’s no taking them back. “Daryl. Must’ve made the call.”

A thoughtful noise from Shane and another minute ticks by in relative silence. He closes the fridge eventually and tells Rick “I’ll be right back,” before he leaves the house, the door hanging open on its hinges. Rick has a clear line of sight when Shane marches up to Daryl and starts talking to him, but it looks a lot more like arguing, Shane’s shoulders tense and his face twisted into a frown. Rick can imagine what he’s saying, stubbornly looking away when he sees Daryl glance in his direction, but Shane snaps his fingers at him – _I’m talkin’ to you,_ probably and Rick stops himself from keeping track of the minutes until Shane comes back.

He slams the door shut. “Piece of shit,” he mutters, throwing himself down on the sofa, one clenched fist resting on his knee. “Yeah, ‘s him alright. Told him to stay out of it.”

“Good,” Rick tells him, meaning it, suddenly resentful of Daryl for trying to break apart what little he and Shane have managed to piece back together. “It’s not his business, and it sure as hell ain’t his concern.”

-

Daryl does stay out of it, but whether that’s because he doesn’t care either way or because Shane made him, Rick has no clue, but he has a hard time believing that a man like Daryl would be intimidated by Shane. He might be a bad sort, but as far as Rick can tell, he keeps to himself and doesn’t make anything his business unless it directly affects him; must’ve been trying to sleep while Shane got it in his head to start shouting and throwing punches, that once, then called it in for his own peace of mind. There’s nothing there to suggest that Daryl gives a damn what goes on in their house and their lives, but when Rick has a night off while Shane is at work, Daryl says “Hey,” as he crosses the lawn with his hands in his pockets, eyes on Rick.

Hey, like they’re friends. Hey, like Daryl isn’t the part of this equation that doesn’t work. “What do you want?” Rick asks, a touch unfriendly, bringing his mouth to the neck of his beer. He’d planned on staying in, but there was nothing good on cable and he wasn’t in the mood to go out, so he’s sat himself on the porch, near the railing, counting down the hours until he’ll be good and drunk and Shane will be back.

Daryl could easily start a fight – hell, Rick’s expecting one as retaliation for his behavior since day one, but Daryl only narrows his eyes at him and shrugs, picking at his fingernails. His house is dark, shrouded in shadow and Rick absently wonders if he lives alone. He’s seen another guy drop by, once or twice. “Nothin’,” Daryl tells him, half-assuring and half-defiant, looking at Rick through a long, unkempt fringe. “Thought I’d apologize for the other night. Walsh sure didn’t seem to appreciate it.”

Rick prepares himself to answer, but Daryl cuts in with “It ain’t my business, but y’all best keep the hollering down when other people are trying to sleep, ‘s all.”

He pauses, then, clearly waiting for an answer that he doesn’t seem sure he’ll be getting. Rick clears his throat and nods, thumb swiping across the moisture beading on the bottle of his beer, murmuring “We’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

He watches Daryl as he walks across the dewy grass, up the stairs and inside his house. It stays as dark as ever.

-

“I don’t like it,” Shane tells him out of the blue; Sunday evening, dinner on the table, cold silence between them until now. Rick doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. There’s a lot of things that Shane doesn’t like and Rick keeps staring at him until he raises his chin and continues. “You, hangin’ out with that Dixon.”

It was once, Rick almost snaps, but that’s too defensive and he has nothing to hide. “You don’t have to like it,” he responds coolly, stabbing at a lone morsel, frustrated and trying not to show it. “You have your life and I have mine. That gonna be an issue again?”

Go on, he thinks, blood rushing hot and furious through his body. I dare you to say it.

Shane is very quiet as the minutes tick by, until, inevitably, he has to say something. “You don’t see what I see,” he insists, voice firm. “He looks at you, man-“

“He looks at me,” Rick repeats, nearing the edge of hysterical and incredulous all at once. He puts his fork down; doesn’t trust himself not to drive it into Shane’s hand, right now. 

“You really wanna go there, Shane? Right now? Because I don’t and you sure as hell never do.”

He can see clenched fists and a helpless scowl, but for once, Rick isn’t on the losing side of an argument. He’s tired of having to justify every choice he makes and this – this bleeding wound that never closes – isn’t something that Shane can fix. He tries to put together what he broke, sometimes, but Rick doesn’t understand how that works; Shane can’t close a wound that he put there in the first place.

The scar above his heart burns, twitches. “What do you want from me?” Shane asks, staring at Rick with a strange light in his eyes. “We been through this before and you didn’t leave then. That what you’re tryin’ to tell me? You want out, after all this-?”

Christ, no, Rick thinks, violently recoiling from that thought. “Don’t play stupid,” he snaps, “It doesn’t suit you. You don’t get a say in what I do with my time or who I share it with. That understood?”

He makes the ultimatums about this. Rick is sick and tired of the fighting, but eventually, Shane backs down. They eat dinner in a heavy silence.

-

“What’s with you and that bike?” Rick asks, unable to help himself; it puts a wide grin on his face to see Daryl startle from under the motorcycle, but Rick’s mirth bleeds away when he sees the genuinely alert and defensive look in Daryl’s eyes as he slowly pulls himself out from under the bike, kneeling on the asphalt with his hands rubbing grease into the fabric of his jeans.

Not a good start, admittedly, but Daryl seems to get over it quickly enough, a vague smirk curving his mouth. “’s a piece of shit,” he says but the words aren’t without affection. Daryl is swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Feel like I’m always workin’ on it, lately, but as long as it runs…”

I get it, Rick wants to say, except he doesn’t – he was never big on this kind of culture, large cars and fast bikes. That’s more Shane’s thing. “You do this for a living?” Rick prods, curious, and Daryl nods before he frowns and shakes his head. “This’n’that,” he offers. “Odd jobs, I guess. I don’t like doin’ one thing all the time.”

He doesn’t question why Rick is suddenly interested in talking to him for more than a curt, passive-aggressive exchange, but it occurs to Rick that maybe Daryl is lonely. When you’re lonely, you don’t care much who ends up talking to you, so long as you get to remember what it feels like to have a friend. “Good with your hands, then?” Rick continues, rolling his eyes when Daryl’s smirk widens. “You know damn well what I meant.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daryl agrees dismissively, digging around his toolbox, the stereo on low. It’s not Metallica, today; a radio station of pop songs, Rick thinks, wondering why he finds that so funny. “Kinda. Grew up doing this stuff. You either learned or you didn’t, so I did.”

Rick doesn’t know what to think of that. He’d have thought that Daryl would be the kind of person to keep himself guarded, his cards close to his chest, but he’s telling Rick things all off-handed and casual like it doesn’t bother him at all, except – yeah, there it is, the tension and worry in Daryl’s back, like he’s expecting judgement. “It’s impressive,” Rick tells him, ruefully adding “I’m not sure I can even change a flat, anymore. It’s been a while.”

The way that Daryl snorts makes him frown, but there’s nothing deprecating in that sound. It’s almost a laugh. It’s almost friendly. “We’ll see about teaching you,” Daryl says, shrugging. “If you ever got the time.”

-

Rick knows that it’s only a matter of time until everything implodes, but he knows that in the distant way; he pretends otherwise, because there are nights like this.

Nights like this, he and Shane act like the past can really be just the past and left behind them. He knows, he knows, he knows _better_ than this, but tonight, just for tonight – he’s said that enough times that he doesn’t believe it anymore – he can let Shane show Rick why they committed themselves to this in the first place.

“God,” Rick says, voice breaking right in the middle as Shane pushes his thigh higher with sweat-slick fingers, his hair damp and curling at his temples. “’m – god, that’s good,” Rick sighs, shaky and incoherent, his head turning into the pillow, mouth open against it, bruised. He doesn’t let himself think about anything when Shane groans above him, eyes liquid and dark, one hand spread out across the center of Rick’s chest.

Shane’s thumb brushes that scar, and Rick can’t stand it; he takes Shane by the wrist as his body rocks and shifts with the thrusts and the momentum, bringing Shane’s knuckles to his mouth to bite at them, working a slow, shuddering gasp out of Shane when his tongue licks the spaces between his fingers. They haven’t done this in a long time, not like this, and Rick is devastated by it when Shane murmurs “I missed this,” and sounds like he means it, whole-heartedly.

They both miss a lot of things, these days. They’ve lost too much between the two of them to be able to let go.

“Yeah,” Rick pants, nails digging into Shane’s shoulder, scratching along his spine, head thrown back. The night is eerie and quiet for a minute, but when Shane’s hips stutter forward and his chin dips down, frame trembling, Rick can hear the distant roar of an engine that’s been rebuilt a dozen times cutting across the corner of the street.

He comes, listening to that sound, vision blacking out.

-

Rick is waiting for Shane to notice the envelope.

It’s been sitting on the counter all morning since Rick went to get the mail, and for a childish second, he’d considered throwing it in the trash and pretending that he had no idea how it ended up there, but he couldn’t. Whatever guilt Shane carries with him, Rick isn’t exempt from it. He lets the letter sit there, inconspicuous and harmless, an Atlanta return address taunting him from his perch on the couch.

It isn’t as easy as Rick thought it would be, because you can’t escape anything just by putting hundreds of miles of physical distance between yourself and your demons. He wishes that it was possible, but it isn’t, and when Shane comes home after his evening shift and finally notices the envelope, he doesn’t give it a second glance.

“You gonna open it?” Rick asks, but it’s a cruel question. He doesn’t want Shane to read it. He wants it gone, sent back to Atlanta, but that isn’t happening. “Might be urgent.”

“If it was urgent,” Shane says, voice measured, “She’d have used the damn phone.”

He can’t even say her name, Christ, but Rick is no better. “Open it,” he demands, looking right at Shane. He feels toxic; he’ll tear everything down to ruins. “Shane.”

Shane stomps over, not taking care to open it properly. He tears the envelope and fumbles for the papers within, and Rick’s stomach drops when he sees an ultrasound photo flutter to the living room floor. It isn’t fair, any of it.

He can see a naked longing and a deep, awful resentment in Shane’s eyes when he skims the papers, his body tense, like he’s waiting for Rick to come at him, for once. “It’s nothing,” he tells Rick, stuffing the contents back inside the envelope furiously. “It’s nothing important.”

They both know better.

“I’m going out,” Rick tells him, because he can’t stay here when he can see Shane eyeing the phone, like he thinks he needs to make this call a hidden thing, a shameful thing. He doesn’t expect Shane to protest, so Rick goes for his jacket and his wallet in a hurry, biting back every last thing he wants to shout at Shane, right now. _You did this. You broke us._

Shane doesn’t reply to him. Rick says “Don’t wait up,” as he shuts the door, but before he gets more than two steps away from the house, someone’s asking “You goin’ somewhere, officer?”

He takes a deep breath and faces Daryl. The man is on his porch, privy to the entire mess that just happened, living room window open and curtains fluttering gently. Rick almost feels guilty. “Yeah,” he tells Daryl, shaking his head and putting a hand across his face, drawing a shallow breath. “Anywhere other than here, as a matter of fact.”

Daryl is silent, until –

“Need a ride?”

It’s dark out. The stars are clearer here than they were in the city, their faint lights glimmering hopefully above Rick. He glances at Daryl and considers the offer, how stripped raw he feels and how badly he wants out of here; why not, he thinks, like that’s a good enough reason to say yes. Why not?

He nods, quick and jerky, then adds “On that?” when Daryl stomps his cigarette out and makes his way to his bike. He gives Rick a dirty look, and huffs. “What else?” he demands, gesturing grandly. “You see a Porsche anywhere, huh?”

“Whatever,” Rick eventually concedes, and he doesn’t say _where’s your helmet, you know there’s a law,_ but he walks over and says “I need to get drunk. Really drunk. Please.”

“I got you,” Daryl says; the bike whines, and then roars.

-

Shane and Rick don’t talk much, anymore, even as they told each other _a new start_ was all they needed to make this work. Daryl doesn’t talk much, either, but it’s a blessed relief from the stony silence Rick imposes on Shane and the brimming, vengeful quiet that Shane pits against Rick. Daryl is quiet because he knows when not to speak, and tonight, Rick is grateful for it.

There aren’t that many bars to choose from, and Rick lets Daryl take him wherever he pleases – a stupid move, a stupid idea from the get-go, but he needed out and Daryl offered. He always seems to be around when Rick needs a change of pace, a change of scenery. “This is a really bad idea,” Rick says needlessly, holding on tight to Daryl as the engine slows and they pull into the parking lot of a dive bar. “I don’t usually-“

Rick has no idea how to finish that sentence, but Daryl nods like he gets it, anyway. “I got you,” he insists, “Stop worryin’.”

He doesn’t expect Daryl to follow him inside. He accepted the ride when Daryl offered, but to feel him moving behind Rick to push inside the bar alongside him-? Rick wasn’t ready for that, but he’s more than a little relieved when Daryl asks for water for himself and _somethin’ heavy for this poor bastard._ At least one of them will be clear-headed, later.

“I’m a regular good Samaritan,” Daryl drawls when he catches Rick looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Drink.”

Rick does, grimacing at the taste that burns the back of his throat something awful, waiting for it to become bearable before he tries it again. “Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes closed, thumb pressed between his eyebrows. “I needed this.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything in response. He watches the TV instead, but Rick can tell that he’s trying to avoid talking; he’s entitled to that, Rick reminds himself, staring down at the bar.

He and Shane used to go drinking together. They used to do most things together, and now – Christ, it makes him laugh, thinking about them in terms like this. It’s like he’s already given up.

“What’s so funny?” Daryl grumbles, twisting the cap off his bottled water and taking a sip, frowning at Rick. “You lose your inhibitions already?”

The mood doesn’t sour, but it turns into a strange and somber thing when Daryl asks him that. “No,” Rick says, sighing. “I rarely do.”

He knows what kind of drunk he turns into; the melancholic, the nostalgic, the pessimist. He thinks about Shane and the past and he thinks about Shane and the future, and it paints a disjointed and incomplete picture, his fingers tightening around his glass – it might be scotch in there, he doesn’t know, but whatever it is, Rick throws it back like a drowning man thirsty for water. “Hell,” Daryl says, sounding awkward. “I didn’t mean – are you alright?”

The wrong thing to do is say no. Rick’s mama raised him to be polite, and polite people don’t drag strangers into their hurts. “No,” he says, unable to help himself, shaking his head. “Furthest thing from.”

Another silence blankets them, and the bar, packed as it is, is oddly serene around them. There aren’t any college kids or bachelors in here, only old-timers and regulars and single mothers nursing beers, everyone wishing to escape from themselves. “Sucks,” Daryl tells him, like an offering. “Another?”

-

Another, Rick agreed. By the end of the night, he’s not quite drunk enough that he can’t see straight, but he’s drunk enough that he fights Daryl on his decision to cut him off, and he’s somehow simultaneously sober enough to eventually realize that it’s a good idea. Daryl takes him out into the parking lot and lets him crumble against the wall, shuddering with his head between his knees.

Daryl Dixon is becoming his friend, Rick thinks, head heavy. It’s a strange world.

“Hey,” Daryl prompts, crouching in front of Rick; there’s a frown in his voice. A sad one. “Man, you a lightweight. How the hell ‘m I gonna get you home?”

“Could leave me,” Rick suggests, blinking blearily, tipping his head back to look at the sky. “’s what happens.”

He shouldn’t be saying these things to Daryl, of all people. Daryl doesn’t know him, and it should stay that way. It’s easier to be with Shane when nobody else is in the picture, and knowing what he knows, Shane would like it that way, too – at least on Rick’s end. “Pathetic,” Daryl scoffs, rejecting that idea. “Get off your ass, Grimes. You got a husband to get back to.”

He doesn’t sound happy about it, Rick thinks, listening to the way Daryl says the word husband. It doesn’t sound like a compliment, and it sure as hell doesn’t make him want to get home. “It’s my husband I was hoping to get away from,” Rick points out with a hiccupping laugh, rubbing at his forehead. “You ever need that kinda space? Where you just,” he gestures broadly, in defeat, sighing again. “Where you’d rather be by yourself? Ever been that selfish?”

“Plenty of times,” Daryl tells him, but whether that’s the truth or just to reassure Rick, he has no idea. “All the time, really.”

Rick squints at him. “So what’re you doin’ here with me, then?”

He can hear Daryl scoff, can just about make out the strange expression on his face. “You’re drunk,” Daryl evades, “And you were gonna get drunk with or without me here. Someone’s gotta babysit,” he explains, but it sounds thin and flimsy. “Better me than no one.”

“’s a good way to think,” Rick murmurs, letting Daryl clasp his arm and pull him upright, feet clumsy on the gravel. “’s a good way to be.”

He doesn’t know if Daryl smiles or frowns in response, but he says “Maybe I should hustle you into a cab, huh,” as he glances around, biting his lower lip. “Ain’t so smart to be bringing you on the bike like this.”

Doesn’t that sum it all up, Rick thinks, watching Daryl take out his phone, like this is a routine that he’s used to. Ain’t so smart, any of this. It’s been a bad idea from the start.

Rick should stay away from him. Not because Shane wants him to, but because something starved inside of him wants to reach out for Daryl, and he can’t do that. Desire has its way; Rick knows that.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Daryl when the cab pulls in, the driver glancing at them with clear impatience. “I didn’t mean to put you through this.”

Daryl shrugs like it isn’t a bother, and when his warm hands help ease Rick into the backseat – as he pays for the ride despite Rick’s protests – he makes himself believe that this thing, this longing-? It’ll go away.

-

Shane never comments – never asks – about that night, but Rick can see the way that he holds himself around Daryl, rare as their meetings are. Daryl doesn’t seem to pay much mind to it, but Shane is stubborn and insistent in his grudges, like he’s waiting for Rick to declare that he’ll never be around Daryl again just so that Shane can have the pleasure of having his things all to himself. It doesn’t work like that, and Shane just stews in his own frustration while Rick finds himself warming up to Daryl.

That night at the bar, he felt something. He can’t place it and doesn’t want to, but even just a nod and a greeting from Daryl is enough to have Rick smiling, lately, and he doesn’t smile much anymore.

-

He’s off-duty and heading home when the accident happens. It’s a dark night, a windy night, and the windshield wipers on his car have never been reliable; Rick feels a sickening knot in his stomach when something crosses the road at a run, but not fast enough to avoid getting mowed down.

He’s seen people shot, women abused, kids exploited, but the reality of the mutt lying by the side of the road, whimpering…it makes Rick want to cry as his tires screech to a stop, door wrenched open to let him get to the dog as fast as possible. “No,” he says, “No, no, come on-“

It’s not dead, but it’s a near thing, he figures, seeing the poor creature whine, hind leg twitching. The bone is protruding. It’s a ghastly sight, and Rick fumbles for his phone and realizes, helplessly, that he doesn’t know anyone that could help. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, but when he bundles the whimpering dog into his jacket and carefully deposits it in the back seat, he makes himself think.

Marie, at the station – she has a cat that she took in for a check-up a few months ago, didn't she? She mentioned a name. Greene, Rick thinks frantically, and recalls a farm a few miles out that he and Shane passed on their way into town.

He drives and keeps a close watch on the dog, making his way carefully up a dirt path until his headlights are illuminating a farmhouse, the lights still on. It’s late, and his heart is somewhere in his throat when he rushes to the front door, pounding on it. “I need help,” he calls, voice hoarse, uniform still on, his breathing ragged. “Please,” he says, halfway through the word when a petite woman opens the door, giving him a startled look, seeing the blood on his shirt.

“I need a vet,” Rick tells her before she can get a word out. “Please, I – I hit a dog.”

“Oh, dear,” she breathes, before calling for someone named Hershel over her shoulder. An old man appears behind her, kind eyes looking at Rick for an explanation, and his throat works with a click, a heavy rush of dizziness hitting him. “Son,” the man says, “What happened?”

-

Hershel treats the dog as best as he can. Rick hates to impose so late in the night, but he refuses to leave until he’s sure that he didn’t kill it, and his hands shake while he waits in the hallway. This really isn’t the place to bring injured animals, he knows, but he hadn’t had the time or wherewithal to find an actual clinic when he felt so pressed for time.

“Thank you,” he says as one of the girls – daughters – brings him a glass of water, her short hair tucked behind her ears. “I’m sorry for barging in on you all like this.”

“You panicked,” the girl – Maggie - says, but she doesn’t sound unkind about it. “Most people would’ve just left it there. You did a good thing.”

He laughs shortly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t careful enough,” he laments. “I’m an officer, what if – what if that’d been a kid? I can’t…I had to make sure it was alright.”

A pause hangs between them, and then Maggie smiles and says “Daddy says it’s a she. He says she’ll be alright, too. A broken bone looks nasty, but she’ll pull through.”

“Yes,” Hershel agrees, stepping into view and Rick stands up quickly, like a child waiting to be told whether he’s being punished or not. “She’s doing fine, now, but she’s in pain. Looks like a stray,” he tells Rick, “But healthy enough. Fleas are about her biggest concern right now.”

Rick exhales, sharp and shallow, putting his hand across his mouth when it trembles. “Oh, thank god,” he breathes, but Hershel isn’t finished. “We can’t keep her here,” the man emphasizes. “She needs a good home, and you, son? You need to take responsibility.”

Without thinking, Rick says “I can do that.”

-

Daryl doesn’t look at all surprised to see Rick on his porch when he opens the door; doesn’t look at all surprised to see a dog wagging its tail happily by Rick’s side, either, and it makes him feel oddly guilty. Has he already taken up so much space in this man’s life that it’s not unexpected for him to drop by?

“Hi,” Rick offers lamely, glancing down at the dog that’s edging forward curiously, sniffing at Daryl’s socks. “I – I hit a dog,” he says, wincing. “She’s real sweet, but…Shane doesn’t like dogs.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more, apparently, because Daryl crouches down and says “I’ll take her,” without hesitation, holding his hand out and waiting patiently for her to come forward and lick the tips of his fingers. “She got a name?”

“No,” Rick tells him, shrugging. “I knew I wasn’t gonna keep her so I didn’t want to name her, neither. It’s all yours.”

Daryl glances up at him, half-smiling. “Always wanted a dog,” he says contemplatively, opening the door. “You gonna bring her stuff in? Ain’t saddling me with any of that crap, man.”

Rick laughs – “Yeah, I got it,” he promises, handing the leash to Daryl as he jogs back to the car to gather everything Hershel told him he’d need. There’s food, toys. There are enough things in there to make the dog happy and Daryl less stressed, so Rick brings it in and awkwardly stands in the hallway, wondering where to put it. “Anywhere’s fine,” Daryl insists. “I ain’t gonna make her stay in one place, either.”

“Alright, then,” Rick murmurs, and arranges things as neatly as he can. Daryl is playing with the dog in what Rick thinks is the kitchen, but it’s dimly lit and – it doesn’t matter, anyway. This isn’t Rick’s place, and he doesn’t get to judge. He finds himself leaning against the doorway and watching the dog carefully limping around, sniffing at things before making herself good and comfortable on the carpet, huffing in contentment.

“Yeah,” Daryl says in satisfaction, scratching her behind the ears. “You like it here, don’tcha?”

Rick doesn’t know how to excuse himself and leave without making it awkward, but Daryl gives him an out; “You don’t gotta stay,” he tells Rick, looking at the dog instead. “Sadie and I are gonna be just fine.”

“Sadie?” Rick can’t help but ask, stifling a laugh. “She a dog or a country singer?”

“Hey, my dog,” Daryl defends, finally looking at Rick. “It’s a good name, _Richard._ ”

That makes Rick cringe, which in turn makes Daryl snort, and after that, leaving doesn’t feel as awkward or as urgent, anymore.

-

At the station, the first few days, the atmosphere had been strange. Off. Rick can understand it, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like it. It’s one thing to have two new transfers come in from the big city, but to have two new transfers be married-?

Jeremy had been the first to broach the subject, even if he’d been walking on eggshells as he did it. “Grimes,” he had said, frowning like he was making a connection, and once he did, his eyes got wide. “Oh! Walsh’s partner, right?”

They aren’t partners like that, anymore; haven’t been for a long time, considering their track record was shot to hell after…after everything, but they do good apart, too. “Yeah,” Rick had said slowly, watching Jeremy’s eyes go to his wedding ring. “Used t’ be. Not like that, anymore.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” the kid had assured him. “Least you’re in the same line of work, right? At least you both get it.”

“We sure do,” Rick had agreed, but it had felt hollow, even to him. Being a cop means different things to them. They don’t have the same values, anymore. Shane’s too stubborn and Rick is too quick to back down. Shane is reckless, Rick is pedantic. They’ve been over this a hundred times, but at least, Rick thinks sourly, they both _get_ it.

-

It’s ridiculous, what he’s doing – he knows as much even as he lets it happen.

It’s ridiculous, Shane would tell him, lip curled in a sneer and eyes dark with helpless rage. He’d get real quiet, at first, before saying any of it; he’d let himself build up a storm to get back at Rick.

He’d do that, if he knew, but he doesn’t know.

-

“Maybe this is stupid,” Rick muses, staring down at the motorcycle that Daryl is straddling with barely-veiled impatience. Stupid, he says. He’s been doing a lot of stupid things, lately. “I mean it, Daryl. It’s a bad idea waiting to happen.”

Reckless, for sure, and Rick hasn’t been the reckless type since he signed up for the academy. He looks over the picture in Daryl’s driveway once more, the bike and the man and the endless spaces in between, sunshine doing something odd to Daryl’s hair, reflecting a dozen colors all at once. There are grease stains on Daryl’s jeans. His knuckles are red, his boots are dirty and Rick can feel something inside of him yearning desperately to unravel at the sight.

This isn’t who he is. He abandons that thought, clears his throat, smiles at Daryl without strain. He’s better than this. “I know you’re just humoring me,” Rick tells him, sighing, “But have I told you this is a really bad idea, yet, since you didn’t seem to hear me the first few times?”

“Rick,” Daryl says – voice rough like he’s been smoking and Rick realizes that he likes the way his name sounded in Daryl’s mouth, just then –

 _Jesus_ , he thinks, throat closing up. _Jesus._

“Rick,” he hears, blinking himself back to the real world, offering Daryl a smile that feels a bit shaky. “We don’t gotta, you know. Thought it might be fun, but if you changed your mind-?”

He was never a reckless person, even as a teenager. Rick should have changed his mind by now, but he looks at the leather and metal of the motorcycle and then he looks at Daryl straddling it. “No,” he says, squinting up at the sky before looking back at Daryl. “Go ahead.”

Sadie is lying on the sun-warmed concrete, her tail lazily wagging as Daryl eases off the motorcycle. Her eyes are half-open, but she stumbles to her feet and happily licks at Daryl’s outstretched palm as he gives Rick a once-over. “For one thing, you ain’t riding it wearing _that,_ officer.”

Fair enough, Rick thinks, glancing down at his blue jeans and buttoned-up shirt. “I ain’t riding it at all,” Rick reminds him, “Not today. Show me how it works.”

“’s simple enough,” Daryl claims, but nothing is ever simple. Rick gets caught up in watching Daryl’s callused hands as they flutter from one part of the motorcycle to another, gesturing as he speaks. For a man so reticent, he’s surprisingly expressive. “Throttle, brake, seat – ain’t much more you need to know, ‘cept that you’re gonna want to go real slow until you get the hang of it.”

Rick never did these things when he and Shane lived in the city. Moving here has changed a lot of things, but not the things that need changing the most; at this point, Rick’s just about ready to call it quits, but he’s not that selfish.

He never used to do these things but Daryl Dixon is staring at him with pale eyes, his soft mouth gone quiet. Rick wraps his fingers firmly around one of the handlebars, getting a feel for the shape of it, rubber and metal leaving imprints on his palm. “Why do you like it?” he asks Daryl, struck with the desire to know. “What’s it like?”

He’s never made assumptions about Daryl, not like Shane does, but Rick can imagine a reason or two why Daryl would fall in love with a fast engine. He can only imagine, though.

It takes Daryl a moment to answer, but maybe that’s because he’s waiting patiently for Rick to meet his eyes again instead of staring at the way his collarbone pushes sharply at the neck of his shirt, all that exposed skin catching Rick’s eye. “It’s freedom,” Daryl says, as if it’s as simple as that. “Can go anywhere I want whenever I want. Ain’t nothing like it in the world.”

A faint smile curves Rick’s mouth. Freedom; it’s an easy thing to fall in love with, isn’t it?

Daryl hasn’t said much, not really, but Rick thinks that he understands Daryl a little better, now. There are secrets both of them keep that will always stay private, but these rare insights make Rick want know more. There is so much more to know about Daryl.

“Here,” he says abruptly, rising up off the bike to gesture for Rick to come over. “Have a go. Get a feel for it.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, “Sure.”

He settles on the motorcycle, staring down the driveway, wondering what it would be like to take charge of Daryl’s work of art and – disappear, maybe. Never come back.

-

“You’re leaving,” Rick says, but there’s no surprise or resentment in his voice – he’s not asking a question, he’s making a statement. Shane won’t look at him.

He grunts his affirmation, shoving clothes into a duffel bag, rooting around in the closet as Rick stands in the doorway and wonders what Shane is running away from. His own shame isn’t likely. He hasn’t possessed remorse in years, Rick thinks, expression blank. “For the weekend?” he prods, watching Shane closely. “Why does she need you there? The hell is she asking you to come down for?”

“She didn’t ask,” Shane tells him. “I offered.”

Lori isn’t content to be a ghost haunting their lives, anymore. She has to drag them all back into the thick of it, selfish in her need. She never needed Shane, before; hell, she was more than happy to let him go until the damn test came back positive.

“You gonna be with her?” Rick asks and the question is heavy and final. He feels sick with dread. He feels both furious and apathetic at once, because this has been a long time coming, hasn’t it? Shane doesn’t want this life and Rick doesn’t want Shane and maybe they ought to get it over with, the inevitable ending that’s coming closer and closer every day, but they don’t. Won’t.

Shane’s mouth is bloodless when he straightens up and runs a hand through his hair. “I owe her that,” he tells Rick, avoiding the question. “Shit, I’m gonna be there _for_ her, Rick, not with her. Don’t you get that?”

I owe her that, Shane says, but what about what he owes Rick? What about the goddamn vows and the countless promises that never came true?

“Don’t you get that?” Shane presses. “Don’t you trust me?”

Rick says “No, I don’t.”

He lets Shane pack in peace. If he wants to go back to Atlanta, Rick will let him – can’t very well stop him, anyway, but he’s relieved at the same time that he’s angry, because he needs breathing room and Shane hasn’t been willing to give him that in years. Let him leave and think that he’s redeemed for all the ugly things he’s done. Let him come back and be proven wrong, because Rick is tired of pretending that their life together isn’t fractured.

Lori can have Shane. Rick is beyond caring.

-

“Where’s your man?” Daryl asks, nudging Rick with his elbow as Sadie trots along happily ahead of them, sniffing at the grass, her leg healed up nicely.

Rick doesn’t respond, not right away. He sighs, because in all honesty, he doesn’t know. Shane’s in Atlanta but he might as well be on the other side of the damn planet for all that he’s been keeping in touch – said he’d take a weekend off work to support Lori at her appointment, but it’s noon on Monday and Rick hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him. He isn’t surprised.

“Family business,” he eventually tells Daryl, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Lori’s having a baby and Shane wants a family and Rick has stopped caring. There’s no point in getting worked up when he lost everything long, long ago. “’s nothing serious. He’ll be back when he’s back.”

Sadie breaks into a run after a flock of birds, forcing the two of them to run along after her, but once she’s exhausted herself and is panting in the grass, Daryl lets the leash fall from his hand as he turns to Rick with a frown. “You don’t,” he starts to say, hesitating like he thinks he might offend Rick. “You don’t look so good.”

Rick has told Daryl plenty of things about his past and about Shane, but not the festering bits. Rick hasn’t told him any of that; never told him why they moved, why Shane is the way he is and why Rick still makes excuses for him, despite everything that’s happened. He doesn’t want to burden Daryl with that.

“You think?” Rick asks, but there’s no evading Daryl’s stubbornness, so Rick eventually sighs and sits down on the ancient bench that Sadie’s sniffing around. Daryl joins him a moment later, crossing his legs at the knee, lighting up a cigarette. “There’s been some bad times, is all.”

Hell, the bad times don’t seem to be letting up any time soon, do they?

“Sucks,” Daryl offers, but he shoots Rick a surprised and maybe confused frown when Rick quietly goes “I think it’s about over for us.”

He could just about kick himself for spilling that one without thinking. Daryl doesn’t want to hear about his marital problems, but he sits quietly by Rick’s side until he works up to asking “Why’s that, ‘f you don’t mind me asking?”

Rick thought his life would work out differently. He thought things were meant to stabilize once you got older and settled down, but nothing has ended up the way he thought it would; Shane is about the only constant thing in his life and that’s a damn low bar, he knows, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

The happiest part of his life is Daryl, and ain’t that sad, the married man seeking comfort in the next door neighbor who keeps putting up with all the trouble Rick keeps bringing his way?

No, this isn’t how Rick expected his life to turn out. It’s a heavy thing, realizing you better put your dreams up on a shelf and let them stay there; no need to dust them off, no need to look back on’em.

He used to have high hopes. Lately, Rick’s been praying for a miracle.

Rick’s never said the words out loud, not to the damn marriage counselor or anyone else that cared enough to ask. It’s not like it was a secret, because their little neighborhood couldn’t resist a good scandal, but the prim and proper folks of the inner city suburbs never called it what it was, so when Rick says “He cheated,” it’s the first time he’s told it to anyone that wasn’t long since dead and buried.

“He cheated,” Rick repeats, “For a long time. Got the girl pregnant, too. That’s why he’s gone.”

Funny thing about being gone is that it isn’t solely a physical thing. Rick hasn’t felt present, either, for a couple of years; not since the shooting, not since the affair, not since everything got turned to shit.

He used to think he wanted things to go back to the way they were, but he doesn’t. Shane was a good man, once; Rick was a good man once, too.

Daryl knows that Shane hits him. Daryl knows that sometimes, Rick hits back. He never mentions it, but Rick can tell that he knows. It’s all in his eyes, the way they warily watch Shane when he’s around and how he pretends he can’t see the little bruises that Rick doesn’t want to talk about.

Daryl had someone in his life that used to hit him, too. Rick knows that. They know a lot more about each other than he ever thought they would.

See, the thing is that Rick has his damn bruises and Daryl has these old scars and they don’t talk about it, ever. The thing is that Rick doesn’t want to talk to Daryl, anymore. He wants other things.

“Rick,” Daryl says; his voice is rough from the cigarette that he puts out beneath his boot, “What are you trying to tell me?”

He shouldn’t have asked that. Rick has a dozen answers for him, all of them true and shameful and freeing. I don’t love Shane, anymore. He could start with that. I don’t want to keep doing this, maybe, because Daryl would understand, but the last truth is too dirty to voice: I want you, Rick thinks, unable to continue denying it.

“Ain’t it obvious?” Rick asks, “Hasn’t it been obvious the whole time?”

Daryl is staring at him with wide, dark eyes. He looks scared. Rick takes in the expression on his face, how his mouth is a restless and flickering thing, tugging into a frown before curving into a half-smile, as if Daryl can’t decide what to feel or when to feel it, all of it out of his control.

Rick is sitting on a park bench on a Monday afternoon when Daryl frames his face and kisses him.

-

The epiphany is an oddly anticlimactic one.

Rick is sitting on the couch with the TV on low, staring at this house that isn’t a home when a thought occurs to him: he could leave.

He doesn’t have to do this anymore. Shane doesn’t want to and Rick knows that if he keeps forgiving and forgetting they’ll forever be stuck in the same place, fighting the same battles and blaming each other for every last thing that’s gone wrong. Rick could take it to court, but he won’t. He’d be giving Shane an easy way out and that’s what he’s wanted all along; Rick’s willing to bet he’s been dying for Rick to decide he doesn’t want this, anymore, so that Shane won’t have to be the bad guy that walks away.

Rick doesn’t care who the good guy is, who the bad guy is, doesn’t care who’s the victim in all of this. He doesn’t want this anymore and Shane won’t admit it until Rick backs him into a corner, but neither one of them can keep doing this. Shane can have Lori and the baby and Rick –

Rick can have Daryl’s little smiles and Sadie’s eager kisses and maybe it’ll turn out alright, he thinks, but then he puts himself back in reality. Daryl kissed him; it wasn’t a declaration of unending love, but it’s something and Rick isn’t a blind man. He knows how Daryl looks at him. Daryl has always known that Rick’s been looking back, too.

“Are you staying?” he asks Shane on the phone, later, during a call so stilted that Rick is almost afraid to breathe. “Tell me right now – are you staying?”

There’s a woman’s voice murmuring in the background, something half-asleep and peaceful. Lori isn’t perfect, but Rick is tired of blaming her for what Shane did and what he was, in the end, complicit in by ignoring it for so long. “Friday,” Shane says, a note of finality to his voice. “Be back Friday, at the latest. We need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, staring out the window, seeing the yellow glow in Daryl’s windows fade as the lights are turned off. “We do.”

-

Daryl has a black eye when he comes knocking.

It’s late at night, but Rick wakes up and slowly rises from the couch in order to make his way to the door. He knows that it’s Daryl long before he lets him inside; there aren’t a lot of people that would come seeking him out at all, much less at this time of night, but Rick is both surprised and concerned when Daryl steps inside with one eye painted purple and his lower lip split violently.

3AM and Daryl’s gone and gotten in a fight, but Rick directs him silently into the living room as he freshens up and fetches the first aid kid with its dwindling supplies, the two of them sitting in silence while Rick inspects him for any damage. He doesn’t ask Daryl how this happened. Given time, Daryl will tell him himself.

“My brother’s a jackass,” Daryl spits, accepting the ice pack that Rick presses into his hand only for Daryl to press it against his swollen eye. “Son of a bitch got it worse than I did, though. Won’t be coming ‘round for a while.”

Below his breath, he mutters “Thank god for that,” and Rick knows better than to ask.

Daryl ends up asleep on the couch, draped in a blanket. Rick goes and gets Sadie while Daryl rests; she comes eagerly enough and squirms into bed with Rick and for one hopeless moment, Rick realizes that this is the life he’s been dreaming about, imperfect and strange as it is.

“Got coffee somewhere?” Daryl asks first thing in the morning. Rick wordlessly hands him a mug, waiting for the toast to finish. Belatedly, he realizes that while he knows Daryl in one way, Rick has no idea how he likes his toast – realizes that maybe he’ll have a chance to learn those things if Daryl decides to stick around, but Rick doesn’t want to be hopeful.

“About last night.”

The words are clipped and awkward; Daryl looks awfully guilty when he swallows and says “My brother, he ain't right in the head, you know? Said some shit he shouldn’t have said about me-“

His eyes flicker over, land on Rick. “-About us-“

Rick likes that word; us.

“-and we got into it. Didn’t mean to bleed all over your expensive furniture, Grimes.”

Rick ends up snorting a laugh, shaking his head at Daryl as he sips at his coffee and scratches Sadie behind the ears, her delighted panting filling the kitchen. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he tells Daryl, “Your face is busted enough, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daryl responds. He sits down beside Rick, bruised and haggard and despite all of that, he’s the best and most beautiful man that Rick has ever known.

Wednesday morning is a peaceful one. Shane will be back on Friday and Rick will either fall back into their old life or make a new one for himself; for now, it’s Wednesday and Daryl’s knee bumps his beneath the table, the house quiet and empty around them for a change.

Wednesday belongs to them; Wednesday couldn't get any better.


End file.
